Red Flags: Trust Your Gut.

Exhilarating and terrifying. When a young woman goes about her days and nights in a manner of true independence, there’s a quiet purity to that (even if she’s a total partier. I mean the being on her own part.)

Having had it with bizarre roommates, I decided to live on my own in an apartment in a decent area. I was probably twenty-three or twenty-four.

When new neighbors moved in upstairs, I went out of my way to say hello to the skinny, young, pretty girl and slightly older guy, big and swarthy. She was friendly, he was not.

First red flag.

Within about a week of them moving in, I heard him shouting at her long into the night. It went on for hours. I could only hear her crying, him yelling. Then I heard a thump. Then another one. Screams. More crying.

Shakily, I called 911. I explained that there seemed to be a domestic disturbance upstairs and could they come check it out?

In a state of high anxiety, I felt as though there were flies buzzing about me. Was this really happening? I wasn’t raised around violence. I felt like throwing up. I also felt trapped. I did not want to witness (hear) this violence, but I had no choice.

The officers arrived, asking me questions. I told them only what I’d heard. Cursing, shouting by the guy; screams and whimpering from her – like a wounded animal. Then the thumps and her cries, which worried me. They went upstairs to check it out.

You have to understand – I would have given anything to not be listening to their drama unfold. To not be involved. But…this (how do you refer to some jerk beating a woman – this just doesn’t cover it) was happening right above me. It sounded like she was in serious trouble. I couldn’t not do anything.

Everything got very quiet when the cops arrived. The noise upstairs stopped completely. The cops were no fools though – the guy had apparently roughed her up pretty badly, and she had bruises and contusions. They didn’t mess around – they arrested him.

I heard her cry all night. The next day, he returned (I could hear him on the stairs). I looked out my window and he flipped me off and slid his finger across his neck.

Second big red flag.

Scared, upset, and angry, I called the cops back to report the threat. This was ridiculous.

A few days later, I saw her on the stairs. Her face was bruised and she was limping. I started to ask her how she was doing and she responded: Fuck off. Leave us the hell alone, you bitch!

I was taken aback, but I wasn’t mad. I didn’t take what she said personally. It certainly would have been easy to. I just felt incredibly sad for her. She clearly loved him.

You see, I had experienced my own bad boy. Never violent like that with me, though I did feel scared of his raging temper on several occasions. I left my guy. His temper and cheating were way less than I deserved. But I understood the draw.

A few weeks later, I heard a thunderous roar on the stairwell. There must have been twenty young guys headed upstairs chanting, “Bachelor party!”

Wishing I had somewhere else to be, I was stuck at home working. I put on my music and settled in at my desk.

It wasn’t too long before I noticed a drip drip in my kitchen. What the hell? The ceiling was hanging down in the middle like a cow’s udder; plaster wet and falling, the ceiling about to pop. I didn’t know what the heck was going on upstairs, and didn’t care, but I didn’t want whatever was coming down to fall!

Rather than head upstairs on my own, I called the Super. An older gentleman who’d been around, he took one look at the ceiling and said simply, “Keg. I’ll be back.”

About the same time as he slammed my door, the udder burst all over my kitchen. There was beer everywhere. I don’t even like beer!

I heard the Super, knocking upstairs but no conversations. I set about cleaning it up and hoping I wouldn’t be held responsible (I wasn’t, of course).

Within about thirty minutes, the cops were back. This time they brought the paddy wagon. Apparently, this party was all minors. I waved as my neighbor walked out in cuffs. He spat at me.

Beyond red flag.

Months go by. I eventually tired of hearing the heartbreaking beatings, loud parties, and threats – I decided to move. I just never felt comfortable or safe there. Sometimes I was terrified to go to sleep.

Was it my own fault because I’d gotten involved?

On moving day, my next-door neighbors came over to say goodbye. A friendly, older couple, the man took me aside privately and told me: I chased off the idiot upstairs several times when I saw him peeping through your windows. I didn’t say anything to you because I didn’t want to freak you out.

I remember feeling pure rage. Rage at the violation, the invasion of privacy, and the sheer audacity it took for someone to peep into my windows. (I was also furious with my nice neighbor for never reporting it. I was mad at everyone.)

Awesome. Not only was Upstairs a wife-beater, he was also a Peeping Tom? Seriously? Or was his peeping something more – looking for a way in, perhaps.

I still shudder thinking what could have happened – not only to me but also to this skinny, pretty young confused girl. I’ll never forget the muffled sounds of someone deliberately hurting – no, beating — someone else. Cries for help she made but ultimately didn’t want; though I knew at some point, she would.

But I also learned this: trust your gut. Get out, because things don’t ever get better when someone threatens you or worse, hits you.

I always wondered what happened to that couple. I hope she made it out alive.

About Rachel Thompson

She is the author of the award-winning, best-selling Broken Places (one of IndieReader’s “Best of 2015” top books and 2015 Honorable Mention Winner in both the Los Angeles and the San Francisco Book Festivals), and the bestselling, multi award-winning Broken Pieces (as well as two additional humor books. Rachel’s work is also featured in several anthologies (see Books for details).

I have never personally been in domestic violence, but I have had loved ones and friends who did, and I saw and heard things since I was young. I learned the warning signs early and vowed to never get involved with that kind of guy. There were probably some that slinked by, and one I know of for sure, but those type guys don’t like strong women. The one guy that I know of cussed at me in asking my phone number. I told him off and left. I was thinking WTF? You act like this asking my phone number?! I shudder to think what may have happened on a date. Kudos to you being a good neighbor. I still try to understand how battered women get brainwashed into loving people who hurt them and going further to defend their actions. I can tell you I honestly fail in understanding, but I try. I am usually the person that helps them pick up the pieces and tells them to be strong. What gets me is that the police haul them off and then they come back the next morning–the law still fails the victims until they end up in a body bag or worse and then it’s too late. People like that aren’t nothing but freakin’ bullies–I wrote a post about how bullying and domestic violence are similar. When you talk about how they guy just threatened you I would dare him to and see what happens–that’s just me I’m a fighter. He wouldn’t be expecting what would he on the other side of the door when he broke in since he made his intentions clear before. Kudos to the other concerned neighbors too!

Thanks, Amanda for sharing your thoughts and experiences. I’m always fascinated by human interactions of all kinds. There’s a psychological dynamic with domestic abuse (both perpetrator and victim) that surpasses what exemplifies ‘normal.’ I always wonder how people get into these situations and at what point the perpetrator feels violence is the answer.

I’ve known many abused women and to blame them is ridiculous (though many do). One guy on my Twitter scolded me once for posting a friend’s article on her own abuse — saying it was her own fault. I’ve since blocked the idiot, but unfortunately, many people feel that way; which makes me sick.

Appreciate the kudos; it was a scary situation and I still think of it often. Trusting our gut is SO important!

I called the police on my neighbors one night. It was 4 in the morning, I heard a bang that shook the pictures on my walls. I heard her screaming “Get out my house! Get out of my house!” I was shaking because I didn’t know if it was her boyfriend or if someone had broken in. I know they know I called. They never mentioned it, and I didn’t either. At some point they broke up, at least for a while. But I will never forget that momentary feeling of complete fear as I was trying to figure out what was going on.

I know YOU know you did the right thing. At the time, you probably didn’t think twice. It is terrifying because we’re not directly involved but we are in the simple fact that we’re human and we understand right from wrong.

Great post Rachel. Glad you saw the signs and took action to keep yourself safe. I second you strongly on listening to your gut… having lived with a man with unbridled rage who used weapons that left only invisible bruises. I saw multiple red flags from the start, it looked like Times’ Square at Christmas. And yet, I ignored them. Beat myself up by insisting I be ‘more reasonable, less judgmental’ and to give him the benefit of the doubt. If I learned anything from the experience it’s if you see signs of coldness, cruelty or calculated strategy :: RUN! You’re being groomed for something truly nasty. Sane, sensitive men ‘feel’ real and warm and authentic whilst predators feel robotic – and you want to avoid stuck behind closed doors with one of those!

Super points, Scarlet. It can be really scary when you’re in it because you cannot be objective. There’s just no possible way. It wasn’t until many years after that I could look at all the signs. That’s part of why I understand what this young women felt. And why you saw but didn’t SEE the red flags at the start. That’s why trusting your gut is so important!

I journalled much of what happened during my relationship with my ‘bad boy.’ That helped so much now when I look back at all that happened.

Like Tennessee Williams said, “The only unforgivable sin is deliberate cruelty.” I was in law enforcement for 25 years and worked midnights in an urban ER for 7 years. I’ve seen the battered remains of the lives left by the hands of cruel men. I’ve seen the burned, beaten and dead children, the rape victims and the catatonic stares of a teenaged girl beaten into an oblivion she may never return from. I was in the ER one night when a young woman came in with her ear in a paper bag, bitten off in a rage by her man.
You were right to act Rachel. It was the only human thing to do. Unfortunately, her reaction was predictable, though tragic, and I don’t have a solution for that.
I’ve taught hundreds of police officers and ER personnel about trusting your gut in a class called Tactical Awareness. And we can discuss it at a better time.
I HIGHLY suggest (although that word is not strong enough) that every woman read Gavin DeBecker’s book, The Gift of Fear. It may save your life.

thank you SO much, Joe for sharing your experiences. I remember when DeBecker’s book came out — it so hit home for me. I remember his story about a female rape victim who walked across the hall in a sheet (when she had the chance to get away) and knocked on her neighbor’s apartment for shelter. The rapist went on to kill another woman. So scary.

I talk with my daughter often about respecting her fear. For anyone interested in the book, here’s a link: http://t.co/XfMLKLu9 for the Kindle edition.